


Magic is a fucked-up thing

by tatch



Series: Serendipity [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Constantine (Comic), DCU, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Coffee, Cuddles, Jason's childhood was terrible, John knows exactly how much of an asshole he can be, M/M, Magical Mumbo Jumbo, Mostly fluff and plot, Pre-Relationship, Sleeping pile of antiheroes, Smoking, Soul Bond, Vague mention of past trauma, Weapons and Explosives, lots of smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-12 00:17:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13535613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatch/pseuds/tatch
Summary: John and Jason have a talk, magic is a fucked-up thing and there's coffee.





	Magic is a fucked-up thing

**Author's Note:**

> Guess what, I wrote more.

 

Jason has a place in the city, whatever city they're in.

So when the bar starts filling with the evening crowd (and how long have they been sitting there exactly, John has no idea), they file out quietly, shoulders brushing as they walk the streets.

If anyone considers mugging them, between John's slightly unhinged grin and the swagger in Jason's gait, all contained violence, ready to be dished out, they must change their mind because no-one bothers them until they reach the rundown, barely holding together building Jason's apartment is apparently in. Three flights of stairs up and they reach the last floor and a shitty door with a suspiciously sturdy looking lock.

Somehow, all the windows are intact, a small mercy considering the huge cracks in some of the walls. There's a suspicious stain near the entrance, partially washed down by time and (no doubt) the owner's stubbornness. A mattress in a corner, clearly unused, boxes that look to be older than Jason, taped shut hazardously and that haven't been touched in years, besides the odd 'carry it somewhere else because this space is needed' touch. The only thing that appears regularly used and cared for is an old leather couch, thread-bare in places, rips and holes having been sewn shut in multiple occasions.

Jason's place is a mess, both empty of anything personal and full of what looks to be a small arsenal of guns and explosives and blades of various kinds. It makes John feel right at home. Less esoterical and more down to earth violent but, yeah.

The tension, the readiness that had been rippling between them, through this bond they now share eases and John's shoulders relax, foreign tension leaving him. It hadn't been his own but Jason's. And apparently the kid (is it still right to call him that?) feels more at ease between four walls. Or maybe it has to do with the presence of what would be enough to take down a small army.

Who knows.

 

Jason vanishes in something that looks deceptively like someone tried to cobble up a kitchen out of near broken appliances and surfaces that were at least two decades too old, plastic flaking in places, wood splintering in too many spots. There's the sound of a percolator being started and John taps a cigarette out of his packet. Only four left, hell.

"Mind if I light one, love?"

"Not really." _Amusement through the bond_ "Just mind the explosives."

John snickers as he exhales a mouthful of smoke. The ashtray should have clued him in, but he is distracted by the dilemna of whether to sit in the couch or wait for Jason to exit the kitchen. In any other circumstances, he would have already been sitting, swifting through whatever was within reach, ready to be thrown out at a moment's notice.

But sitting in the couch felt wrong, and too far and John _knows_ it's the bond, both freshly renewed and starved for contact, that's making him feel like this.

He knows he should let it wither and die.

Knows it's going to hurt.

Knows it will only grow stronger, that it will only hurt more and more to break, the longer he takes to make a decision.

But it's not just his decision to make.

Jason deserves to _at least_ know what's going on. Not that John would have bothered explaining with anyone else, except maybe Zee, but he'd known the kid for years, even though they'd met for the first time _in the flesh_ today. And Jason had never asked, never judged, never told him he had done something _anything_ wrong.

Maybe he's earned some truth (the rarest thing coming from John, Zee would say). Maybe it's just the bond trying to worm its way deeper into his bones, sapping his defenses to make him more emotional.

Who cares.

John certainly doesn't.

 

Jason emerges from the kitchen, having taken his jacket off some time during the duration of his stay in the room, balancing two mugs of coffee in one hand, the other holding the spoons and a pot of sugar. He manages to make the position seem both casual and ready for battle, as if he was about to throw the boiling hot coffee in John's face and then stab him with the spoons (then maybe sprinkle sugar in his eyes to blind him). It sounds ridiculous, but John has a feeling that's exactly how Jason would react if someone or something threatened him right now. Then he'd lunge for a gun or six, and top the whole thing with a grenade if necessary.

The whole image is so over the top that John has some trouble not bursting out into laughter

_Curiosity. Tension. Uncertainty._

John chuckles, infectious mirth taming tension that isn't his, and follows Jason to sit on the couch. The mugs are carefully put on a makeshift table, a plank and three crates, the spoons and sugar following in the next move. Arms brush as Jason backs into the couch just as John moves forward to grab a cup, and contentment springs up in the space between them, akin to scraching an itch you didn't know you had.

 

They both still.

Part, as they both finish the movements they'd respectively started.

Pinpricks of unease sprout between them, trying to tie them back together.

John sighs internally. It's getting ridiculous and Jason is noticing that something's happening, though he's mostly confused about it.

John reclines back into the couch, having left his mug on the 'table' and points at Jason's marked wrist. "Can I?" Jason's hesitation doesn't even last a second before he offers his hand.

As soon as John wraps his fingers around it, the contentment returns.

 

"It's the mark." John starts before mentally rolling his eyes at himself. ' _Yeah, sure thing John, start with the end._ ' "The whole-" He waves the hand holding his cigarette between them "-thing that lets us feel each other's feelings. That makes us feel.." "Better?" Not quite but close enough so John nods lazily, said _betterness_ infusing his bones. "Yeah. When we're together, close or you know-" He raises the hand holding Jason's. "Touching."

_Comprehension. Something complex and tangled that chokes him around the edges_

No panic? That's ... odd. But he's used to working with odd.

"So," Jason replies slowly, eyes fixed on John's face, the teal slightly green because of the light, or something else, "is it dangerous?"

"Not really." John shrugs. "If we stay away from each other long enough, it will wither and fade away. It's not a fun process but all it takes is distance and time."

_That tangled emotion again_

John blinks slowly, tightening his grip on the kid in reflex. "But you don't want that, do you?"

The corners of Jason's mouth twitch. "You don't want that either."

' _Right. You read him and he reads you._ '

The kid continues. "What happens if we _don't_ starve the marks?"

"The bond." John corrects distractedly, trying to recall what he knows about soulbonds. He hums thoughtfully and takes a drag on his cigarette, keeps it in, blows it out. "It will grow stronger, the connection will deepen. Soulbonds are a rather rare occurence, especially ones that are left to flourish, since it's letting someone else share a part of your soul. And sharing part of theirs. Kind of. Well, not quite, but there aren't words to truly explain the process." ' _You're rambling, John_ '

_More amusement_

Yeah sure, of course the kid noticed too.

 

John clears his throat. "From what I can remember, reading, feeling each other's emotions, some kind of telepathy but only between the two of us. I remember a tale of a soulbonded pair where one could describe and draw what the other saw." He scratches his cheek, vaguely mindful of the almost entirely consumed cigarette still in his fingers. "I don't know much beyond that. And I have no idea how our bond will evolve, whether it will go beyond anything I've ever heard about or stop at sharing thoughts." John gives the butt of his cigarette a distasteful look and breaks contact to throw it away. The spark of unease, pinpricks of not quite pain and goosebumps, that springs between them is the bond, bleeding in disapproval at them breaking contact. He plops his feet in Jason's lap once he's done with the remainder of his cigarette.

 _Unease, vague annoyance and ... wariness. That rapidly melts into contentment._ Uh.

"You okay with this?" He waves at his feet. He's comfortable like that but if Jason needs him to move...

A hand lands on his ankle, light but the intent behind it clear. ' _Don't move._ '

"Yeah. I'm good."

"Good."

 

* * *

 

 

Jason blinks blearily, thoughts slow for a moment before he wakes up.

His watch (digital clock, the ticking of traditional ones puts him on edge) indicates it's morning. Early morning but fuck, he missed the 'reunion' he wanted to crash that night.

But he feels ... rested. More rested than he normally does when he hasn't gone out to wreck havock on those deserving it. Definitely more rested than he's ever had when he slept with someone nearby. And considering that the instinct of only sleeping on one ear in the presence of someone pre-dates his time with Bruce, pre-dates training to be able to wake up at a moment's notice, it's-

There's something warm under his face, his chest and part of his hips and he _stills_.

 

He remembers they'd moved around a lot, looking for comfortable positions in his old couch, limbs tangling and untangling. At some point John had started talking about this and that, places he'd been, things he'd seen and the soothing rumble of his chest had lulled Jason to sleep... ?

The body under his own stirs slowly, quietly.

 

_Sleepiness, worry and something that feels like a grumbled curse translated to feeling_

"You're thinking too much." And yeah, that's definitely a grumble, sleep roughened and unhappy to be awake.

John said it would take time, if it ever happened, before they could/would share thoughts, so...

"Sorry." He'd woken him up by feeling too strongly... ? That's- The idea is- _Weird._

 

John moves and Jason stills again, wariness creeping up his spine. He hates that he still feels like that but- A hand settles on his side, pats him a few times, lazily before flopping back down as if all its strings had been cut off. There's nothing sexual or expectant about the gesture, nothing more than vague worry, and Jason relaxes. If anything, it's comforting. And that's fucking weird. He hasn't liked being touched since... since before his mother passed away, probably. Not the dead-end in a warehouse that his biological mother had been, but the woman who had raised him. Loved him even though he wasn't hers. Who smoke menthols when she wasn't high on something stronger. The only person whose touch didn't get a fight or flight reaction from him. Even Bruce- Bruce had learned very fast to not touch him unless Jason initiated contact.

_Worry, still, and acceptance._

 

"Tell me you got coffee. Or tea. I could go for tea." John mumbles, voice a bit clearer than before.

The worry is there in the whatever that exists between them now, but John's not asking. Just ... accepting that that's Jason's reaction. It's ... nice. He smirks, face still smothered against John's chest, quashing the thankfulness in his chest before it can reach his mouth.

"I'll start the percolator. Pretty sure we finished last night's pot."

He gets up smoothly and heads to the thing he should be calling a kitchen but honestly can't bring himself to. John snorts and there's a beat where amusement and a quiet 'you're welcome' emotion that aren't his float in his chest, before he hears his friend (he's pretty sure that that's what they are, having met years ago despite having met yesterday for the first time) makes a remarkably unhappy sound and shuffles around. Jason busies himself with making coffee, ears tracking what John's doing but he doesn't feel the _need_ to keep an eye on him. A curse followed by the sound of a lighter and the scent of tobacco. John appears in the doorway, sleepy annoyance creasing his brows and forehead, half a cigarette at his lips.

"Crushed my cigarettes by rolling around with you. Going to have to buy new ones." He doesn't look too happy about it. "Got some I could borrow, love?"

That nickname, again.

Jason opens a cupboard, trying to remember where his stash is, _if_ he furnished this specific safehouse with cigarettes or not, whether or not he'd depleted it already.

He doesn't mind the nickname, but it feels different, now that he's no longer a ghost, now that he's alive and talking to John face to face, in the flesh. He doesn't know why _exactly_ , isn't entirely sure he wants to know, but it does.

He doesn't think it means anything really but- Ah, there. He takes one of the packets, which leaves five in the closet, passing a finger on the seal to check it's still intact before throwing it at John.

"Is there anything you're not stocked up on?" John asks, amused, as he checks the brand, before opening the packet to smell its contents with an approving hum.

"You always smoke that much?" ' _Or that early?_ ' Jason counters, amused despite the brow he raised.

John grins, a crooked, lopsided thing. "Only when I wake up this early."

 

It's a lie. Nothing big but there's this jarring sensation of _fake_ embbed in this thing between them (and Jason doesn't like the idea of calling it a bond, but he's lacking a better word for it. For now.) Said _bond_ isn't scratching at the back of his mind that he should be seeking as much physical contact with John as he could. He'd been too busy being lost into his own thoughts to really give it more than a passing thought earlier , but the thing is there, just dulled and no more than a vague whisper. The emotions pass between them just fine but that _need_ is gone. Well not quite gone, more like, asleep and content and lazily stretching in the space between them, instead of curled and purring like a cat where they touched. Like a big annoying cat.

"You're lying." He comments lightly, brow still raised.

John shrugs a shoulder and takes a drag on the miserable half cigarette that's valiantly trying to live up to its name. "It's a thing I do."

It's not the unapologetic, flat and not quite daring nor challenging tone that makes Jason pause, nor the guarded stare, fixing him, waiting. No, what makes him pause before he can voice how much he dislikes being lied too, regardless of how often it happens, is the openess, secondhand near _vulnerability_ that burns in his chest and would choke him if it was a tangible thing. There's no hint of it on John's face or his posture. It's a potent, old and hidden thing and without that string tying them, he would have never known. Jason mulls over his words before letting them out.

"Any reason for that?" His own voice comes out casual.

_Surprise and a tentative 'something', light and fragile like a feather._

John's gaze fixates on the wall behind him and Jason can almost feel him weigh his answer, carefully picking which words to use.

"Magic is a fucked up thing. It comes with a price. Depends on what's being done, and who does it but mine..." The ember of his cigarette flares like a warning. "...telling the truth means someone gets hurt." The ember shouldn't fall or hit John's hand, not with the way it's angled, but it does, leaving a small but angrily reddened welt between the junction of his pinkie and ring finger.

Jason steps forward and pulls John by the wrist to the sink. The water in the safehouse is clear enough to be drinkable and more importantly, always fucking cold. Good. He keeps that goddamn fucking idiot's hand under water until he can see the man's skin pale. As he does that, his thought work around what he just learned, thinking of possible loopholes. He can't really _ask_ John, unless he wants him hurt more. And he really doesn't.

"I take it that the more accurate the truth, the stronger the hurt?"

 _Assent and readiness._ And John opens _his mouth to answer_ but Jason clamps his free hand on it before actual words can be spoken. "I felt that." He states, waiting for realization to bloom both between them and on John's face before letting go with a nod. There's that tentative something again, stronger, more tangible and it almost feels like-

 

Whoops, fuck right, John's hand. Jason lets go. Serves them both coffee, since the coffee machine is done hissing and bubbling. He's got questions. But-

But John had explained the whole 'soulbond' earlier, meaning not _everything_ fell into the scope of things of 'truth'. Same when he'd said lying was a thing he did. So, were vague truths okay? And/or information that wasn't personal or important? He'd have to test it, see what the limits were. Jason grabs his mug, already working out a list of things he could ask about and takes a tentative sip before turning back to John.

"Think you could ... not lie?" He shrugs a shoulder, coffee sloshing around in his mug, dripping down the side and to the ground. "I don't need a detailed answer or the exact truth, fuck, you can stay silent if you have to, just ... yeah, don't lie to me." _Please_ . There's no reaction on John's face but he gets a tangle of emotions that all tie into another before, in a tightly knit knot of _whatever that is_ before it calms downs and John nods. "I can try."

"Too used to lying?"

"I guess you could say that." John smirks, almost shrugs but _assent_ rises between them, and Jason huffs in amusement.

 

Silence settles, light and companionable, and John returns to the couch to sprawl on it, coffee in one hand, feet kicked on the plank atop three boxes that Jason's been using as a table. His head lolls back, eyes finding Jason, before he closes them, that self-satisfied smirk on his lips, like he knows something Jason doesn't and it's fucking hilarious.

Jason snorts lightly, second hand amusement making his lips twitch. ' _What an asshole._ '

He finishes what he'd started doing while coffee was brewing itself into a delicious drink: taking inventory. It hadn't been in his plans to stay in this peculiar safehouse, or this city, for long, and he doesn't think there's anything to eat. Just coffee, cigarettes and ... yeah, a half empty bottle of shitty vodka sitting at the bottom of the-four-planks-and-a-plastic-cover space that tries to pass for a cupboard. It probably tastes like shit but it's useful to clean wounds, cheap and _it doesn't attract attention_.

Beyond that, there's nothing, not even sugar in the not-quite kitchen. Guess that means grocery shopping. Nothing big, as the next meeting he wants to crash is only a couple days away. But he has no idea when the next bout of 'stick as much of yourself to John and chill' is going to come, and going outside like that is making him antsy.

So, yeah, grocery shopping it will be. Fuck, it's been a while since the last time he went shopping for _food_.

But first, he decides as he settles next to John, sticking his cold feet under his friend's warm thigh, coffee left near the sink, he wants to try and see if he can catch a couple more hours of that actually restful sleep.

John's head tilts toward him but it stays put on the back of the couch, eyes staring at him from behind lazy eyelids and the thin veil of his lashes. The smirk widens into a full smug as fuck grin and Jason punches him in the shoulder.

"Shut up." There's no heat behind it, only fondness and a barely concealed laugh and John somehow manages to grin even _wider_.

There's happiness looping between them, coming from ... from the both of them, if Jason's honest. And it's weird that this guy he met not twenty four hours ago, and yet has known for years can make him feel this light and ... free.

 

It's weird.

It's nice.

He wouldn't trade it for the world.

 

* * *

 

 

John hums, low and quiet, as he checks the ward he put on the last window.

 

Jason _may_ have said that he'd be leaving the next morning, that this was just a safehouse, a place he used when he needed somewhere to rest while in town (and he way have extended an invitation for John to come with and fucking hell, _he wants to_ ), but that didn't mean John couldn't protect the two rooms and a kitchen apartment with some basic wards and protective spells.

He is still waiting for Jason to change his mind and kick out the manipulative liar asshole John is. Still expects the guy to realize what a terrible person he is. But it hasn't happened yet. And besides Chad, whose continued friendship is both a wonderful thing and a terrifying time-bomb waiting to explode, the past two days have been the longest he's gone without getting kicked out of a place. Or yelled at. Or slapped. Or beaten up. Or without starting a fight for not much more of a reason that he could and that it would fuel his magic for a time.

But Jason-

His time with Jason, the fact that he hadn't had to force himself to lie, or to endure pain so that his companion could get the truth was ... refreshing. Exhilarating, if he considered the fact it had let his magic replenish naturally.

Not forced out, not forced in.

A breath of fresh air.

And when had been the last time he'd felt this _good_ , content and relaxed and with this secondhand joy, a pull and push of bliss and thrill of _something_ singing in his chest?

Maybe a long fucking time ago, when he'd been much younger, had had friends that loved him for who he was, not what he could have become.

It wasn't like it mattered. It hadn't in a fucking long time.

 

John takes a long drag on his cigarette, a hand hovering over the ward, testing its solidity. Its good work, like most of his work is. Not the type of ward he'd use in his apartment, too easy to spot and unravel, but it fit Jason's short stay and the very temporary nature of the place. He gets back up, takes a step back and the ward shines brighter for a second (or three) before vanishing. Still there but invisible to the untrained eye. Good.

Now that John's done with what he wanted to do before Jason's return, the couch looks as inviting as it had since the moment he stepped into the apartment-that-really-is-a-safehouse-apparently: Very. It gives a comforting huff as he falls into it, preparing himself for more waiting.

Jason left three hours after sunset, and that was five hours ago. Based on the testing, the stretching and tentative 'starving' of the bond they'd done to test its limits during the past two days (Jason had insisted that he needed to have at least some inkling of how long he'd have before the need to be near John crawled back under his skin), Jason should be returning within the next hour. Or two. The _limit_ wasn't perfectly clear.

 

Almost three days, heh?

By John's standards, they'd been around each other _a long time_ . And a _lot_.

 

Enough that he knows he likes being around the kid.

 

That he doesn't mind the quietness or the hyperfocus.

The tendency to resort to violence, the tenseness and dark coiled _readiness_.

Or the pile of weapons and explosives sitting over there.

 

That he _loves_ that he doesn't have to be someone else, and can just be the fucked up son of a bitch life and his fucked up magic molded him into. (And he'd _almost_ forgotten what it felt like.)

 

In a way, it's exhilarating. Like a bird finally allowed to stretch his wings and see the sky after an eternity spent locked up in a cage.

It's also terrifying.

 

And yet.

There's nowhere else he'd rather be right now.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to be keeping these as self-contained as possible  
> One-shots, no cliffhangers from fic to fic
> 
> I'm not doing one big multichaptered fic because:  
> 1\. I have enough of those as is  
> 2\. I don't know when the muse will hit again, so.
> 
> Enjoy o/ <3


End file.
